Like a Madman Laughing at the Rain
by ieatmenlikeair
Summary: "Little out of touch, a little insane. It's just easier than dealing with pain." A look at the relationship between Haymitch and Effie, spanning from before The Hunger Games to after Mockingjay, told through the song "Runaway Train" by Soul Asylum. Has the potential to get upgraded to M in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**** My second Hayffie fic. Each chapter will be based around a verse or two from "Runaway Train" by Soul Asylum, because I heard this song on the radio a day or two ago and it made me think of Haymitch. I don't know how often I'm going to be able to add to this because I'm a student and another semester is coming up soon, plus I work, but I'll do my best not to let it just sit around for months without an update. Don't you hate it when fanfic writers do that?**

**Disclaimer:**** I don't own the **_**Hunger Games**_** trilogy or the characters contained therein, and most of this (pretty much all, actually, especially when it comes to Effie) is definitely not canon. I also don't own the lyrics to "Runaway Train."**

_Call you up in the middle of the night_

_Like a firefly without a light._

_You were there like a blowtorch burning;_

_I was a key that could use a little turning._

_So tired that I couldn't even sleep._

_So many secrets I couldn't keep._

_Promised myself I wouldn't weep._

_One more promise I couldn't keep._

72nd Annual Hunger Games

_Haymitch Abernathy_, she thinks to herself, removing the final pin from her aqua wig and then pulling the hairpiece from her head. Normally she takes care in setting her wig back on its mannequin and rearranging it so that it will be ready for wear the following day. Tonight she simply tosses it across the room, unconsciously aiming for the bed and clenching her teeth in anger when she misses and her "hair" flops to the floor, looking like an exceptionally colorful dead poodle. Tonight she is angry and it's entirely his fault.

"What an asshole," Effie says, taking satisfaction in using language that she would never employ outside the privacy of her own quarters, though sometimes she fantasizes about it. Sometimes she pictures herself waltzing gracefully up to President Snow and telling him exactly what she thinks of him in a plethora of colorful expressions that would make even Haymitch blush. The vision satisfies her, and she hopes it can get her through her annual duty of bouncing around the penthouse suite of the Training Center, smiling and offering bonbons to children who will be dead probably within the next week.

She knows, however, that she never would spew any such vileness at the leader of Panem, never could. Her maternal grandfather had been a Capitol official, albeit a low-ranking one. He had sometimes played golf with President Snow, and her family had always been in the President's good graces. They came from Good Stock, and had a Reputation to uphold. Effie had been reminded of all of this practically since she had emerged from the womb, and she had distrusted the President almost as long. He had scared her when she was a child, and, surprisingly, as she had grown up and left the silly boogeymen of childhood behind, that feeling had not gone away. Even through a television screen, the man could send a chill right up her spine.

Still, he had gotten her job for her, or rather, her family's association with him had, and part of the job description was to be pleasant to Snow and flatter him on the few occasions when their paths crossed directly. To do otherwise would have her perceived as more indecent and uncouth than Haymitch Abernathy.

_Haymitch_. Effie's eyes narrow as she looks at herself in the mirror. With all of her makeup still clinging to her face and her golden hair flying wildly around her head, she almost looks threatening, in the way that a doll's painted face looks menacing when a shadow obscures its meticulous features.

In the three years that they had worked together, she had never tried to be anything but nice to Haymitch. He had repulsed her from the moment she had first seen him stagger drunkenly aboard the Capitol train en route to the Reaping in District 12. In their time as colleagues, if that indeed was the proper label for their relation to one another, he had done nothing but to be difficult, rude, and occasionally even vindictive toward her. Even when they managed to work together as a unit—in the final few days before the start of the Games, when they both shared the single common goal of getting their Tributes as ready for the arena as they'd ever be—relations between Effie and Haymitch were strained at best.

Still, Effie kept on trying, because that was her nature. She had been taught by her mother always to be pleasant to everyone, no matter how much a person deserved a firm slap across the face. The string of emotionally abusive or emotionally unavailable men that she had dated since she'd come of age had only confirmed for Effie that it was her duty, when dealing with anyone, and especially with a man, to be constantly, and even insufferably, nice and to keep the conversation going, even when the person whom she was trying to reach turned out to be a brick wall.

She had hit that brick wall again tonight, after the dinner traditionally shared by the Mentors and Escorts prior to being dispatched to the Districts for the Reapings. One of the other Escorts with whom they were dining had announced casually that in a few years, they'd be coming up on another Quarter Quell. Effie had glanced at Haymitch, knowing that his Games had been a Quarter Quell but not daring to mention it. Unfortunately, the Escort of District 1 had even less tact than she did, and had brought it up, and dinner had been nothing but questions flying back and forth at Haymitch while he refused to give anything other than curt, one-word answers.

After dinner, they had ridden the elevator back to the Penthouse together, and she had said something about how rude it had been for District 1's Escort to start the questioning when anyone could have seen that Haymitch wasn't in the mood to speak on the subject. He had flown completely off the handle, yelling about how stupid her concern with manners was, how stupid her clothes, hair, and voice were, how much he hated the Capitol and, by extension, her. He had stalked off to his bedroom when they got off the elevator, picking up a glass fruit bowl and shattering it against a far wall as he went, and Effie had walked slowly to her own room while battling tears.

"Asshole," she says again, more loudly this time, hoping that her voice will travel through the stagnant air of the Penthouse and that he'll hear her. Though maybe, just maybe, it isn't his fault. She grabs a makeup-removing wet wipe and thinks as she swipes it across her face, watching the ghastly white disappear to reveal creamy pale cheeks tinged with a hint of natural rose. Everyone knows that Haymitch hates to talk about his Games, and that it's a taboo subject with him. District 1's Escort was obviously trying to bait him, and it worked. She had simply been caught in the crossfire, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

_Still,_ Effie thinks as she moves to her bed, turns off her lamp and climbs between the sheets of the bed in which, most of the time, she feels too damn guilty to sleep, _he could show a little better manners_.

She hears breaking glass in her dreams, until she opens her eyes and finds that she is not in a delusion but in her bedroom, and that the noise of breaking glass is, in fact, the ringing of the phone on her bedside table. She rolls over and grabs it, answering groggily, almost without thinking. The voice on the other end of the line is slurred and speaking a little too loudly.

"Princess," it practically yells in her ear, "Effie!" Even through the haze of sleep, all she feels is annoyance.

"What do you want, Haymitch?" she asks.

"Come outside," he demands, "To the garden where I found you that one time. Bring your smokes."

Effie rolls her eyes. "You're drunk, Haymitch," she says.

"I'm always drunk, sweetheart. Come out to the garden." There's a click on the other end of the line. He's hung up and now she hears him emerging from his bedroom, moving across the living room and boarding the elevator. He's certain she'll follow and she curses him for being right. She tears herself away from the bed, pulls on a bathrobe long enough to cover her decently, and removes an elegant leather pouch from a drawer of her bedside table.

When she emerges into the garden, she is lighting a cigarette. If Effie Trinket could be said to have a vice, that vice would be smoking. She knows it's an unattractive habit, but it's one that she picked up in her school days, when she was still a little girl but thought she was a woman, and had thought herself so cool and defiant and rebellious. These days, it calms her down. It's a comfort that she especially needs each year when the Games come around.

She hates that Haymitch knows about this habit. He snuck up on her one evening during the previous year's games and caught her in the act. Because Effie had had a lit cigarette dangling from her lower lip when he found her, she hadn't exactly been in a position to deny what she had been doing. He still mimics the face she made when she was discovered and playfully threatens to tell people about her little habit. They both know that there's no one he could tell who would really care; smoking is not uncommon in the Capitol. Still, for some reason, Effie does not want people to know, and she despises the fact that Haymitch has blackmail material on her.

He sees the flare of fire as she lights the cigarette and then he stares appreciatively as she comes through the shrubbery toward him. She's wearing a satin-y robe and some delicate little slippers and not much else, certainly not one of those lace-and-wire traps in which Capitol women imprison their surgically-enhanced breasts. Effie's are obviously free beneath her robe and, from the way they move under the fabric and the fact that her nipples are peaked even though the night air is warm and balmy, they seem to Haymitch to be real. Not that he's any kind of connoisseur. He's a good deal less randy than he allows everyone to believe. His sexual encounters with women are pretty infrequent, and usually they're devoid of any touching beyond what is essential for the act, since he abhors physical contact as a general rule, though at the moment he can't help but think he might make an exception for Effie.

_Sexy_, he thinks as she moves toward him, _Not only sexy but beautiful. And I hurt her…_

Contrary to popular belief, Haymitch Abernathy does possess a conscience, and right now, it's nagging him and he can't shut it up no matter how much he drinks, because he knows that the way he acted earlier was inappropriate. He shouldn't have yelled at Effie. Yes, he had been angry. The discussion of his Games at dinner had brought a storm of painful memories and, since breaking down and sobbing like a child in public wasn't exactly his deal, the only other appropriate response had been rage.

It was unfair that Effie had been the one to receive the force of his anger. She was not the one that Haymitch hated. He disliked her clothes and her wigs and makeup, was annoyed by her airs and how uptight she was about manners, but he recognized also that she couldn't help most of that any more than he could help being a coal miner's kid from the Seam. It was simply how she had been brought up, the fabric of her Capitol mask.

Effie herself, especially as she stood before him now, barefaced, with her hair flying about her in the wind and a cigarette between her fingers, was actually a decent person, and he had to admit he had kind of grown to like her. She just sometimes made it hard for him to separate her from the Capitol, the real target of his hatred, and, consequently, whenever that hatred turned to anger, she was the logical scapegoat.

"Are you aware of what time of night it is?" Effie asks, taking a drag. The blaze of her blue eyes above the cigarette reminds Haymitch that he has not been forgiven for his earlier conduct.

"Sorry," Haymitch says, surprising her with the meekness of his voice, "That is, I…I wanted…umm…wanted to say I'm sorry. For earlier."

Effie finishes the cigarette and tosses the butt. "You really are drunk," she says. Indeed, his words are slurred and she can smell the whiskey fumes though she's several feet away from him.

"No," he says, "I mean, yeah. Yes. Obviously. Doesn't mean I'm any less sorry."

"Yes, okay, Haymitch; apology accepted. Now, if you'll excuse me, you quite rudely interrupted my sleep and—"

"Don't go!" Haymitch says. Effie closes her mouth, then opens it again, almost disbelieving what she's heard. It seems as though there's just the slightest hint of pleading in his request. Effie immediately drops the ice princess act and advances a few steps toward him.

"Are you all right, Haymitch?" she asks. Haymitch simply drops down onto a stone bench and pats the space beside him, which Effie reluctantly claims, sitting on the edge of the bench because she still isn't sure she wants to be close to him and, besides, he does reek of liquor.

"I just don't feel like being alone right now," he says.

"That's a change. Usually the only words you ever manage to say to me are 'Leave me alone,' or some other crude variation," Effie replies.

"I'm serious, Effie." Now his voice is definitely pleading, and she takes note of his use of her real name. She's not Princess to him anymore, at least not now, though she's sure that'll change once he sobers up and remembers how much he dislikes her. She nods.

"We can stay out here, then," she says, "As long as you want. Would you like a cigarette?"

He accepts one, and after he lights it and takes a drag, he turns to her and asks, "So, want to know why I went berserk after my Games got mentioned at dinner?"

This takes Effie aback, and she isn't sure what to say. She had been only six years old when she watched the live broadcast of the second Quarter Quell, but even then Haymitch Abernathy had been her favorite Tribute. She can't deny her curiosity to hear his version of the events, but at the same time, she really isn't sure that she wants to know.

What she wants, however, soon proves to be irrelevant, as Haymitch begins rambling around the cigarette, starting with how he had almost wet himself in fear when his name was picked from the Reaping bowl and continuing right on through until he's recounting the death of the only girl he ever loved, his gray-eyed girl from the Seam, whom he was supposed to marry and who could have made his life so different, so much better than it was now, if only she had been allowed to live. Tears begin to fall from his eyes as he recounts it all, and he makes no move to check them or wipe them away. Effie pulls a crumpled handkerchief from a pocket of her robe and gingerly leans forward to dab at his wet cheeks, thoroughly surprised when he allows her to.

"Why have you told me all of this, Haymitch?" she asks when he finishes, "Why me, of all people?"

He shrugs. "Don't know," he replies, "I guess it's because you're the closest thing I have to a—" All of a sudden, his skin grows unnaturally pale, and he moves away from her. He had been about to say "friend," but the vomit had risen in his throat, choking his words as it spilled onto the pavement.

Effie stands quickly, backing away from him. Even his vomit smells strongly of alcohol, and, because he's so thoroughly pissed, his aim is off and it goes everywhere, staining his cheeks and his shirt.

"There it is," Effie thinks as he retches, "One nice moment in which Haymitch Abernathy seems human, and then his drinking ruins everything once again." Still, when he finishes, she comes forward to collect him, taking his hand in hers and fighting her revulsion to lead him inside. He allows her to pull him to the elevators and then through their shared living room to his bathroom, where she strips him of his stained shirt and proceeds to clean his face. She gets him to rinse his mouth out with water before leading him into his room and putting him to bed.

"Effie?" he says, his voice slurred with drink or fatigue or both.

"Yes?"

"It feels good."

"What does? Emptying your stomach all over the flagstone?"

"No…having someone to talk to. Not having to keep it all locked up like some big, dark secret."

"All right, Haymitch. Go to sleep now," Effie says, switching off his lamp and leaving him.

She is confused as she slides into her own bed. Certainly she has been shaken by Haymitch's tale. Hearing a first-hand account of what it's like to participate in the Games has unnerved her and she's not sure what to do with the horror she feels, but, even more than that, she's uncertain, now, about where she and Haymitch stand. She definitely understands him better, but will that change anything between them?

Effie pulls the covers up to her chin, realizing that the answer to that is probably a resounding "no." Tomorrow, she is sure, hung-over Haymitch will go back to treating her as he always has, and probably won't even remember how he poured his heart and soul out to her the previous night. But, hopefully, the fact that she now has a context in which to put Haymitch's gruffness and disdain for all things Capitol will help her to keep their working relationship as pleasant as it can possibly be.

Effie hopes, too, that knowing Haymitch's story might help her to better connect with the Tributes that she will be sent to District 12 tomorrow to Reap, and to figure out if anything can be done, on her end, to keep those children from dying in the Arena.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** **You'll notice that for this chapter, which is set during the train ride to the Capitol during the 74****th**** Hunger Games, I've used the scene of Haymitch's introduction to Katniss and Peeta from the film instead of the one from the book. I did this because I really liked the "Embrace the probability of your imminent death" line and felt that it worked better with the scenario I've written about in this chapter.**

_Runaway train never going back  
Wrong way on a one way track  
Seems like I should be getting somewhere  
Somehow I'm neither here nor there_

_Can you help me remember how to smile_  
_Make it somehow all seem worthwhile_  
_How on earth did I get so jaded_  
_Life's mystery seems so faded_

74th Annual Hunger Games

"Embrace the probability of your imminent death?!" Effie says in disbelief as Haymitch passes her on his way out of the sitting room. She had arrived there just a few seconds after he had, but, instead of interrupting his introduction to the new Tributes, she had stayed discreetly in the hallway, listening.

Haymitch groans at the shrillness of her voice, knowing that he's in for a lecture but not feeling at all up to it; he woke up from his nap with a hangover and he hasn't yet had enough alcohol to alleviate the pounding in his head. He speeds up his steps in an effort to get away from Effie, though he knows the effort will prove futile. As predicted, she easily keeps pace with him, even in her absurd high-heeled shoes. The whining of her voice follows him as he walks toward the bar car.

"Really, Haymitch, do you think that being surly with them is the way to train them? Do you think that's going to help them to win the Games?"

They've reached the bar car by the end of Effie's tirade, and when the automatic door opens and Haymitch steps inside, Effie follows, obviously expecting an answer. Haymitch shoots her what he hopes is a condescending sneer, but he can't be entirely sure, because he can't think straight and he's currently seeing two very irate, magenta-suited Effie Trinkets hovering in his field of vision.

"Sweetheart," he says, plopping onto a barstool and grabbing the nearest bottle he can find, "Nothing's going to help them to win the Games."

"Well, your failure to provide even a modicum of support and encouragement certainly doesn't help anything."

"Oh, and you do so much to prepare them for the arena. I'm sure that knowing which fork to use for the salad and how to be ladylike when walking does wonders for them when they find themselves with a dagger to their throats."

"I at least try to keep their morale up," Effie says defensively, knowing in her heart that Haymitch is right about how useless she is to their tributes but feeling the need to defend herself and her job anyway, if only to soothe her own conscience.

Haymitch snorts. "Right," he says, "Well, all the morale in the world isn't going to save either of those kids. They have no chance of winning. I know it, you know it, the people of Panem know it. The only good thing about this arrangement is that I get all the free drinks I want until those two bite the dust."

Effie's eyes go wide in shock, though Haymitch can't figure out why. They've worked together for five years; his extreme pessimism and refusal to sugarcoat anything surely aren't new to her. She's definitely heard him say worse. Hell, he's said worse things about her right to her face.

"What's wrong, Princess? All this getting just a little too _real_ for you? It's about time. You've spent five years shepherding children off to the Capitol's slaughterhouse and up until now it seems to me like you've been just fine with it."

"Well, then, you don't know a single thing about me," Effie says in a small, unstable voice. She sits gently upon a stool next to Haymitch and grabs one of the bottles of white liquor on the table.

"I don't want to do it, Haymitch," she says, filling a tumbler to the brim with the alcohol and topping it off with a tiny bit of cranberry juice, "I don't want to live in an apartment with those children for a week, getting attached to them, only to send them off to die."

"I don't think you have much choice. You know how your precious Capitol feels about people who don't follow orders. Besides, if you cut and run, those kids and I won't have anyone to keep us on schedule, and then where will we be? We'd just have to muddle around figuring things out for ourselves and using the wrong spoons at dinnertime. It'd be insanity!"

Haymitch pronounces the last word a little too loudly, waving his arms wildly in the air and spilling a good portion of his drink in so doing. Despite her dismal mood, Effie has to smile at his antics, though she doesn't think she could possibly manage a laugh. After putting down his arms, Haymitch takes a long drink from his own now almost empty glass and then watches Effie with a look in his eyes that could almost pass for admiration as she does the same, downing half of her liquor in a single gulp.

"Princess can drink, that's for sure," Haymitch says teasingly, earning himself another glare.

"Is this how you live with yourself, Haymitch?" Effie asks, finishing off her drink and feeling it all rush to her head, which suddenly seems to weigh about a ton, "Just keep yourself drunk constantly?"

"I have no damn clue how I manage to live with myself," he replies. Effie nods as if she understands.

"You know, when I first took this job, I thought it was all just going to be glitz and glamor. I grew up watching these Games as a sporting event; I wasn't raised or taught to see them as anything other than entertainment and a way to fame for the people who work with the tributes. I thought maybe I'd get assigned to a Career district, or at least work my way up to one, and then I'd have a string of victors under my belt and I'd get to appear with them in parades and on television and the whole Capitol would know my name and they'd love me."

"Didn't work out the way you planned, sweetheart?" Haymitch asks. Effie searches his face, unsure of whether or not he's being sarcastic or if she's annoying him. When she finds no signs of mockery or anger beneath his calm, if slightly inebriated exterior, she continues.

"All I could think was how much attention I'd get, and how maybe I'd finally manage to make my overbearing mother proud, if I rose to prominence as an Escort. I was so fucking stupid, so shallow and ignorant."

Effie reaches for the bottle again, pouring herself another generous amount of the liquor and not bothering to top it off with juice this time.

"Did you see that little girl, the one whose name I pulled from the bowl? Katniss's sister? She was so scared, Haymitch, so damn terrified." Effie's voice trembles noticeably and she takes another swig of the alcohol to keep herself under control. In her short tenure as District 12's Escort, she hadn't had the miserable luck of drawing the name of someone so young until today. All of the District's Tributes of the past few years had been at least 15 years of age, she supposed because the older children had simply had longer for the slips of paper bearing their names to accumulate.

Even Effie herself was surprised at how much Primrose Everdeen's terror and the sister's sacrifice had affected her, and she had been even more surprised when she'd simply been able to coldly continue on with the ceremony, never dropping her saccharine Capitol mask as she welcomed Katniss to the stage, pulled Peeta Mellark's name and then escorted the two Tributes onto the train. It even frightened her how she had managed to quickly smother her emotions and carry on, giving the Capitol viewers exactly what they wanted and expected from her. She hadn't yet had time to reflect on how she felt about her ability to simply go on with the show, and what it said about her as a person. "If Katniss hadn't volunteered, we'd be sending a twelve-year-old off to get slaughtered, and it would be my fault! I'm a monster, Haymitch!"

Effie squeezes her eyes shut to stem the tears that she know will just ruin her makeup and advertise to everyone that she's been crying. Her chest rises and falls, shaking with the effort of holding her emotions in.

"Okay," Haymitch says, grabbing the tumbler in Effie's hand, "I'm cutting you off. Obviously this stuff is making you crazy. Now listen to me." He grabs her shoulder, shaking her just a bit, "You're going to go to your room and take a little while to calm down and sober up, and you're not going to talk to the kids again until you do so. And then, for their sake and yours, you're going to keep your prim and perky little face on always, and you're never going to let on that you're not just having the time of your life. No reason to piss off anyone in the Capitol. Besides, these kids have already got a useless drunk for a mentor; the last thing that's going to help them is a hysterical, tee totaling escort."

Effie nods. He's right, of course. No sense in making Katniss and Peeta pay for the fact that her vanity and ignorance led her into a brutal job that was too much for her to handle.

"Well," she says, "Look at you, Haymitch Abernathy, being the responsible one for a change."

"Yeah; scary, isn't it?"

"Horrifying. Never do it again."

"You're better at it, anyway, Princess." Effie smiles weakly and then walks over to a mirror hanging on the wall, where she proceeds to make sure her wig is straight and her makeup still perfect.

"I left Katniss and Peeta in the sitting room," she says as she smoothes the lapels of her perfectly-tailored jacket, "In fact, I only left them to find you. Do go and see about them, Haymitch; it's rude to leave them all alone."

Haymitch watches her as she sashays primly out of the room, trying to force himself not to focus on the sway of her backside. He leans against the bar, takes a swig from his glass, and, for the first time in the five years he's known her, considers Effie Trinket as something more than a ridiculous, pampered Capitol elitist. He knows that this harsh judgment of her isn't entirely fair, and that it was born more from a general disgust with Capitol culture than from anything Effie's ever done. Indeed, he has to admit that she's even managed to endear herself to him over the years. After all, it was kind of hard for Haymitch not to feel for her after last year's Games, when the death of their last tribute sent her running from the room in a fit of tears.

And, besides that, in their five years as co-workers, Effie had become the only person on earth who could tolerate Haymitch for any long stretch of time. She infuriated him frequently, and he knew the feeling was mutual and mixed with a healthy dose of disgust on her side. In spite of all of that, though, they sometimes had fun together, during down time in the Penthouse or on the train, and had even developed a few inside jokes. All in all, he had come to consider her as something like the irritating, clueless little sister he had never wanted.

And, then, sometimes, she would do or say something that would shock him, tip him off to the fact that Effie wasn't as much of an airhead as he thought. Something like what she had just done, in admitting her horror at pulling Primrose Everdeen's name and her frustration with the whole process of the Games. That wasn't something one just casually shared, especially someone who worked for the Games and had the kind of ties to the President that Haymitch knew Effie did through her family. Effie's confiding in him meant that she trusted him, and Haymitch didn't know how to feel about that.

For the first time, Haymitch begins to think that perhaps the wigs, the makeup, the stupid Capitol-accented voice, were Effie's defense against reality, against pain, the same way that alcohol was his. He kept himself drunk throughout the games and was rude and surly to the tributes in order to prevent himself from caring too much about them, getting too attached. Maybe Effie's shallow chatter, her obsession with schedules and routine, and her blatant and insensitive disregard for anything but giving the Capitol the kind of show it wanted were simply her methods of detaching herself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: I hope I'm managing to keep Haymitch and Effie in character, especially in that last chapter where Effie momentarily loses her shit. I know that in the books she's portrayed as shallow and completely oblivious to the implications of her job and what's going on around her, but I just thought that it would have to bother her at least a little bit that she's basically rounding children up to be slaughtered. If we were supposed to believe that Effie had no conscience and that the implications of her job didn't sometimes trouble her, then I think she would be kind of a villain and none of us would like her as much as we obviously do if we're reading and writing fanfic about her.**

_I can go where no one else can go  
I know what no one else knows  
Here I am just drownin' in the rain  
With a ticket for a runaway train_

_Everything seems cut and dry_  
_Day and night, earth and sky_  
_Somehow I just don't believe it._

Victory Tour

Effie shivers in the cold air, debating whether she wants to get up and adjust the temperature on the heating unit but deciding against it. On a cold day like this, abandoning the plush blanket that's wrapped snugly around her seems like a sin. Instead, she rests her cheek against the glass of the window, its coldness sending a brand new chill through her. She wonders what District the train is currently passing through—Eleven, maybe? Effie can't tell; all that can be seen on either side of the train are trees.

She returns to the book that's open in her lap, an ancient text called _The Great Gatsby_ penned in the days of the ancestors by a bard named F. Scott Fitzgerald. Not many people would have pegged Effie as a reader, especially not an enthusiast of ancient writings, but she's loved this book since she was a teenager. Because this is about the third time she's read it and she already knows the story, the tragedy of Jay Gatsby fails to hold Effie's attention. Instead, her thoughts keep straying, to the victory tour at hand, to the stunt in the arena that led to this tour, and, above all else, to Haymitch. She listens to the rumble of the train on the track and thinks that every passing second brings her closer to him.

_Suddenly she's back in the District Twelve viewing room at the Training Center, the final moments of the Games on the television. She sits on the sofa next to Haymitch, who's got a death grip on a tumbler of whiskey and a tense look on his face. She has no idea where Cinna and Portia are, why they're not watching the finale with her and Haymitch. Katniss pulls out the deadly berries and deposits some of them into Peeta's hand, and Effie hides her eyes and looks away from the screen, chanting, "No, no" under her breath. It must have been at this point that she grabbed hold of Haymitch's hand, because his fingers are threaded through hers when she hears Claudius Templesmith make the announcement that crowns both Katniss and Peeta as victors._

_She turns back to the television, her face a chaos of disbelief and awe and then, as if for affirmation, she looks to Haymitch, whose mouth is agape as he stares at the screen._

"_Haymitch!" she shrieks, jumping up from the sofa, "They did it! They both survived!" In her jubilation, she pulls him onto his feet and into her arms, almost surprised when not only does he allow her to hold him, but his arms move around her waist and he pulls her into him. She looks up into his face, her shocked blue eyes staring into his equally startled gray ones, and she can barely think, "This is the first time we've ever been this close," before his lips descend upon hers, hot, insistent, and surprisingly soft. His tongue tastes of whiskey as it coaxes her mouth open and then massages hers, and a soft but primal gasp wrenches from her throat as the kiss sends warm darts of pleasure radiating through her system…_

Effie snaps back to reality with a sigh, and it's all she can do to keep from squirming in her seat. She'd never allow anyone else to know it, especially not Haymitch, but it's the memory of that kiss that has fueled her for the last few months. Still, it's been troubling her, too, because now she's really unsure about where she stands with him.

She bites her lip and thinks. In her time as an escort, there's only been one mentor-escort relationship that she can remember, between the escort from District 2 and one of the District's mentors. That relationship had been highly publicized and, from what she read about it, it was short, quick to fizzle out. As far as Effie could tell from what she heard around the Capitol, that was the case in almost all relationships formed between escorts and the team of stylists and mentors that they managed.

When she'd gotten the job as escort, the woman whom she had replaced had told her that sexual or romantic relations between escorts and mentors were not officially forbidden, but that such attachments were not looked upon with favor, since they distracted from the work of prepping the tributes and often ended with the escort resigning or being dismissed from the job due to awkwardness resulting from the inevitable collapse of the relationship. "But," Effie's predecessor had told her, "I doubt you'll have that problem, dear. After all, you seem like a smart, sensible young woman and, anyway, Haymitch is…well, he's Haymitch. You'll see what I mean when you meet him."

Effie had met Haymitch and seen what she meant. She understands that any kind of romantic attachment to Haymitch Abernathy could only in disaster.

He's an old drunk who sleeps with a knife and curses her out or makes condescending remarks toward her at least three times a day during the few weeks out of the year that they spend together. One minute he's screaming at her about how stupid her wig is and how much he hates the Capitol and her, and the next they're at the bar sharing drinks and jokes. He's always running hot and cold, always leaving Effie frustrated to the point of tears trying to figure out what's between them.

Even after he had kissed her, Haymitch hadn't acknowledged that it had happened, and had avoided speaking to Effie or even looking at her for the duration of their stay in the Capitol. Obviously, he was either ashamed or disgusted with what happened, or he had major issues which prevented him from recognizing that anything had changed between them. Possibly all of the above.

Yet, here she is, seriously contemplating the logistics of some sort of a relationship with Haymitch. For this reason, Effie questions District Twelve's previous escort's assessment of her as "smart" and "sensible."

Quarter Quell Reaping Night

As it had turned out, all of Effie's speculation about how her relationship with Haymitch might change had been for nothing. During the Victory Tour, the subject had never been brought up. It wasn't that Haymitch avoided the subject, or even avoided her; it was simply that he acted as though the kiss hadn't happened. They never discussed it, and he treated her no differently than he always had. Because Effie hadn't really been able to find an appropriate moment to isolate him and force him to talk to her, she had simply followed his example and pretended that nothing had happened.

Besides, she had been too rattled by the tour itself to really think about anything but the business at hand. Effie had never had to plan and schedule a victory tour before, and she had quickly learned that it was taxing work. She estimated that she might have gotten an average of two hours of sleep each night of the tour. She had been under so much pressure that she thought her head might explode at any minute. Adding to her stress had been the fact that Katniss was out of sorts the whole time, the disturbing events in District Eleven, and the fact that everyone around her, including Cinna and Portia, seemed to be privy to some important bit of information which was not being shared with her. The fact that there was a loop that she was purposely being kept out of hurt her feelings somewhat, and she might have brought it up and demanded answers if she hadn't been so damn tired.

"I'm still tired," Effie reflects to herself as she closes her bedroom door behind her, looking despairingly at her bed. The Capitol trains were made to provide all of the comforts of home, but she already misses her own bed in her apartment. Not that it matters. She knows that she won't sleep well tonight, not after the time she's just spent with Katniss, Peeta and Haymitch, watching the replays of the Quarter Quell reapings.

So many familiar faces, victors whom she's gotten to know, and some of whom she's gotten to like, in her tenure as an escort. They were all meant to be safe from this, for the rest of their lives, and now they have to go back into the arena. She reflects on this sadly, thinking that her own sadness can't even compare to what Haymitch must be feeling. He's known them all longer and he shares a profound bond of understanding and mutual trauma with each of them. Effie had watched his face during the replay of the reapings and noted the pain in his eyes as each name was called.

With a heavy sigh, she takes off her wig and then goes about the business of removing her makeup, brushing out her shoulder-length blonde hair and dressing for bed. Just as she's clicked on her bedside lamp and turned the lights off, there's a knock at her door.

"Yes?" she calls, grumbling to herself under her breath.

"It's me, Princess. Let me in." Effie goes to the door and on the other side she finds Haymitch, looking as sober as she's ever seen him and entirely disgruntled about it. He doesn't wait to be invited in, simply strides into the room and sits down on the edge of her bed. She takes her seat across from him, on the chair in front of her vanity, waiting for him to speak. The silence is tense as they sit, looking at each other, both afraid to speak. Haymitch's hands shake and his left leg bounces rhythmically.

"You should have something to drink, Haymitch," Effie says.

"Can't. Promised the kids I'd stay sober."

"Well, I'm sure they're both in bed by now, or off somewhere on their own. Why don't we go to the bar car and have a drink together." Effie gets up, heads to the door, only to be arrested by Haymitch's hand in hers. She sits back down and studies him.

"How are you holding up?" she asks. He just shakes his head.

"Barely."

"Is there anything I can do?" asks Effie. He stares at her as though he's considering something, but then he just whispers, "No."

She's never seen Haymitch so quiet, so…lost. She gets up from her chair and joins him on the bed, regaining his hand and lacing her fingers in his, feeling a bit of guilt at the way her heart rate immediately accelerates.

"The next few weeks are going to be torture for you, aren't they?" she asks.

"You have no idea."

"I'll be here, you know," says Effie. Haymitch just looks at her blankly.

"I…I know we're not the best of friends," Effie begins, "I'm not sure that we even are friends, or where we stand with each other anymore but…Haymitch, you can talk to me, you know that, right?"

Haymitch just nods and lets go of her hand. He wants to keep it, wants her skin on his and to be able to pour out his heart to her, but his brain is screaming at him to stop, to let her go, to get far, far away from her. He knows that she wants to talk, and that she would welcome a chance to soothe his frayed nerves and make everything all right.

He knows also that there's so much that's been left hanging between them, but intimacy is something that he cannot face, even the emotional intimacy of just talking to her about any of the plethora of things that are pressing down on him, making him even more miserable than he usually is. He's not sure he could do it even if he had the usual amount of alcohol in him, and he damn sure can't do it sober.

So he just stands up, cups her face in his hands, and bends down to give her a light peck on the lips.

"Yeah, Princess, I know," he says, turning around, exiting the room and leaving her feeling hollow.


	4. Chapter 4

_Bought a ticket for a runaway train  
Like a madman laughin' at the rain  
Little out of touch, a little insane  
It's just easier than dealing with the pain_

_Runaway train never comin' back_  
_Wrong way on a one way track_  
_Seems like I should be getting somewhere_  
_Somehow I'm neither here nor there_

Faintly, in the back of her mind, she knows that the hard, piss-and-blood-smelling floors of her prison cell have been traded for a thin mattress and an equally thin blanket that is useless in warding off the chill in the room. The screams and whimpers from her fellow prisoners have been replaced with the beeping of machines and the drone of voices. One of them is familiar, asking how she is doing and how long much longer she'll be kept on the morphling. The other, which Effie presumes belongs to her doctor, is detached, unfeeling as it explains that she's recovering well from her concussion but that two of her ribs are still broken and the gash on her arm isn't responding to the antibiotics like it should.

A door opens, a hand closes around hers, and Effie considers opening her eyes before the drug being pumped into her veins takes over and knocks her out.

Haymitch does not try to wake her. It's probably best that she sleep. Instead he sits down beside her bed, takes in her black eye and the dried blood that's still matted in her short blonde hair, and suppresses a moan. It's his fault, all of it. He's to blame for what happened to her. He wants to kiss her cheek or her forehead, to feel her warmth and substance beneath his hands and lips so that he knows she's real, but he's afraid to cause her any more damage, so he settles for brushing a kiss against the back of the hand in his.

_Why you, Effie_, he asks himself silently, _Why did they take you?_

He thought that she would be safest in the Capitol. He had rationalized that District Thirteen was definitely no place for Effie Trinket and that to take her there would only put her in danger. He had purposely kept her ignorant of the rebellion and its plans because he didn't want her to have any knowledge that might make her a target. He had not felt contrite about leaving her behind because her grandfather had been one of Snow's lackeys, for fuck's sake; surely if anyone would be safe in the Capitol it would be Effie with her complete ignorance of any rebel activity and her family's connection to the President.

So why had they thrown her in jail and treated her like a war criminal? Haymitch couldn't figure out if it was because they had simply been suspicious of anyone connected with Twelve, or because of him. He and Effie had never treated each other with anything but polite disdain in public, but the Capitol had spies and bugs everywhere, and he and Effie had spent weeks out of every year living in a Capitol-run complex. Maybe it had become known that he and Effie, however fraught their friendship was, had been closer than they let on. Whether they took her because they thought Haymitch might have confided in her, or just because they thought he cared for her and they wanted to either bait or punish him, he doesn't know.

What Haymitch does know is that he could have saved her, and he didn't, because he stupidly assumed that she would be protected by her innocence. As if innocence had ever shielded anyone against Snow's cruelty.

He had tried to save her, when he had realized that she was in danger. He tried to arrange for her to be rescued along with Peeta and the rest of the victors, but the soldiers who were sent into the Capitol's prison hadn't managed to locate her, or, more accurately, didn't even try because Effie was not important to the rebellion and the request for her salvation hadn't come directly from the Mockingjay.

When she had been found, after Coin and the rebels officially took the Capitol, she had been admitted to the medical ward of Coin's headquarters in President Snow's mansion. Her life was in the hands of doctors who clearly didn't care about her and didn't concern themselves overly much with keeping her alive. Despite their indifference and the fact that she was fighting a concussion and a severe infection from a deep knife wound on her forearm, near her shoulder, Effie held on, drifting in and out of consciousness from the drugs, never fully cognizant for more than a few minutes at a time, but always clinging to life. Haymitch stood guard at her bedside during the hours out of the day that he could spare, when he wasn't busy practically begging Coin for Effie's life or babysitting a shell-shocked Katniss.

He looks at her face, taking in the bruises that are just starting to heal, turning to a sickly yellow instead of the dark black and blue that they had been when she'd been found. He doesn't want to think about how she sustained those bruises, but still horrifying images flash in his mind of men's meaty fists slamming into her delicate little face. She had certainly been beaten during her time as the Capitol's prisoner, and the doctors found evidence that she had been injected not only with tracker jacker venom but with another unknown substance that no one's been able to place yet. Worst of all, there was strong evidence that Effie had been sexually assaulted.

_I could have spared you from all of that, Effie_, Haymitch thinks, _if I would have just let you in, if I would have taken you with me_.

His self-pity is interrupted by the appearance of Plutarch Heavensbee at the door to the room.

"What do you want, Plutarch?" Haymitch growls.

"Ah, thought I'd find you here," the other man says, "Sorry to interrupt, but it's Katniss. She's gone missing again. No one can find her."

"So look a little harder."

"We've looked everywhere. Anyway, Haymitch, you're the one who always finds her; we need you to try."

Cursing under his breath and giving Plutarch a death glare, Haymitch stands up, vowing to Effie that he'll come back to see her later. But he doesn't. He spends most of his afternoon trying to locate Katniss and comes back after she's been found only to be told that Effie's still out cold, so he goes back to his room with enough alcohol to poison a small animal and drinks himself into a stupor.

Two weeks later

Effie has only just gotten out of bed and managed to move around her room when she's informed that she's needed to act as escort to Katniss one more time.

"Why?" Effie asks, her voice still hoarse from weeks of disuse. She directs a questioning glance first at Plutarch Heavensbee and then at Haymitch, who sits beside her bed looking sour as spoiled milk. Plutarch explains to Effie about Snow's execution and how Katniss needs someone to look out for her and keep her on track.

"It wouldn't be smart to refuse, sweetheart," he says, sensing Effie's reluctance, "Plutarch and I are doing the best we can but Coin's still not happy that you're here. Refusal to bow down to her every demand will signal resistance to the rebel effort and it won't go unpunished."

_Leave it to Haymitch to be brutally honest_, Effie thinks.

"So, basically, if I don't do it, I'll be killed," she says, her eyes trained on Haymitch. Plutarch makes a sound of protest, but Haymitch nods.

"Yeah, that's about the long and short of it," he says.

"Well, then, I obviously have no choice," she whispers bitterly. After Plutarch leaves, she and Haymitch sit in silence, neither of them knowing what to say to one another. Effie is angry with him, angrier than she can even express. _Why didn't you save me?_ her brain shouts as she looks at him, _Why did you treat me like I didn't matter and then leave me to be captured, raped and tortured?_ She wants to cry but doesn't think that she has any tears left in her. She's spent months doing nothing but crying and wailing behind the walls of the Capitol's prison.

She considers the assignment she's just been given and realizes that now, instead of being a slave to the Hunger Games, she is, instead, a slave to Coin and her new government. In just a few days' time, she'll have to drag her broken and bruised ass out of bed, put on her stilettoes and shepherd Katniss about once again. Maybe she'll be doing this for the rest of her life, managing the Mockingjay and escorting the girl from District Twelve to important meetings that Effie herself is not allowed to know anything about.

Effie wonders what's so important that Coin needs her to keep Katniss from missing it. Snow's execution, obviously, but what about the meeting beforehand? Effie's been in and out of consciousness during the past few weeks, but she's learned that it's amazing how gossipy nurses can be and what kinds of things they'll talk about when they're changing linens for a patient whom they think is too doped up to hear them.

From what she's managed to overhear about Coin and her new government, Effie can't see that she'll be any different from Snow. She's even heard rumors about a final Hunger Games, this time using Capitol children, as punishment to the Capitol for the decades of atrocities committed against the children of the Districts. Effie wonders, if such a horror is to come about, if Coin will force her to be a part of it. Maybe they'll get her to do the Reaping, and she'll have no choice but to select which of her friends' and acquaintances' children are to die. The only other alternatives for Effie would be execution or, worse, being thrown back into prison, this time to be raped and beaten by District Thirteen jailers.

"I'll be screwed either way," she thinks. Forcing Effie to reap Capitol children would be just perfect for Coin and the rebels. The Districts would see it as a sign that the rebels had truly conquered all things Capitol, and the people in the Capitol whose children's names were in the Reaping bowl would see it as Effie's betrayal of her own people. Her life would be over either way. The only thing the Districts and the Capitol would be able to agree on would be their mutual hatred of her.

_Is this what you were fighting for?_ Effie wants to ask Haymitch. She wants to scream at him and beat her useless, delicate little Capitol fists against the solid wall of his chest until she can make him feel her pain. _Is this what you plotted and planned and connived to bring about?_

She can't even bring herself to think of how she feels toward Haymitch, now. There had been a time when she had trusted him, had even believed that there could be something between them, but he had shown that she didn't matter to him whenever he'd taken off for District Thirteen and left her to her fate.

"Sweetheart…" Haymitch begins, but Effie cuts him off.

"I'm not your sweetheart," she says coldly, "I never was."

"Oh, Effie, come on…"

"No, Haymitch, don't. Just don't say anything. Just…just go, and don't come back. Just leave me alone."

Haymitch stares at her in disbelief for a moment or two, struggling to process her anger and obvious rejection of him. Finally, he nods and gets up from his chair, not looking at her as he leaves the room. Effie has to clamp her hand over her mouth to stop herself from screaming at him to come back. _Come back and just hold me_.

He hears her sobs as he closes the door, but can't bring himself to go back to her. Instead, he leaves her to her incoherent rage and grief, going off in the hope that he can find enough liquor to drink himself dead.

**The End**

**Yes, guys, **_**c'est fini**_**, at least for this story. But you can still catch more Hayffie adventures by tuning into my other fic, "Songs of Sleep," which is going to be a continuation of this one.**


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